


Permanent Reminder

by sanandreandream



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Alcohol, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Motels, North Yankton, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 09:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11101248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanandreandream/pseuds/sanandreandream
Summary: An account of Trevor, in the months prior to Michael's death, describing briefly his journey to San Andreas and his tribute tattoo.





	Permanent Reminder

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Everyone! Thank you for reading this! It is my first fan-fiction, and I am so nervous to post this. I hope I did Trevor justice. Also, thanks to @kdnull on tumblr for providing some of the inspiration for the tattoo portion of this fic from her text post, definitely check out her blog it's fucking awesome.

Everything reminded Trevor of ‘him’, the way the clouds would sometimes separate and expose a patch of an all too familiar shade of blue, the way the snow would start to fall in the beginning of the North Yankton winter months, the way the once empty motel rooms would be filled the smell of a Redwood just after he had gone down on the man to which he still doesn’t know the name of.

He died in November, the funeral the same month. Trevor reminded of the occasion by a voice message from Lester - 

‘Hey T, just thought I’d remind you that the - uh - you know, is today. I understand if you don’t go, but maybe you ought to see, you know, come to - uh - come to terms with it. It’s at 3, so … just - I hope you’re okay. If you ever need anything, you can - uh - call me.’

Trevor didn’t go. He didn’t call Lester back. He didn’t do anything, apart from throw the cellphone unceremoniously into the snow, watching it crack and spark under the weight of his boot.

He couldn’t remember exactly what he was doing when they lowered the coffin into the concrete earth, maybe it was when he slammed the second hit of crystal into his swollen veins, maybe it was when he was slamming his forehead into the art-deco wallpaper of the shitty motel room, maybe it was even when he swore he saw Michael walk into his room and look at him with that same enamored expression he flashed Trevor after they had spent the night together, and woke up entangled within each other, physically and emotionally.

It was end of November when he first caught a glimpse of his face on the news, above a well-dressed woman reporting the robbery.

‘The Infamous Michael Townley has been killed in a shootout after a botched robbery in Ludendorff kills 25 police officers and injures 10. Brad Snider, an accomplice within the crime trio, is being held in custody until his trial in December. The third accomplice, Trevor Phillips, is yet to be apprehended by the police. The suspect is deemed armed and highly dangerous, so if spotted call 911 immediately. The suspect has been tied to North Yankton, South Yankton, and Canada.’

Trevor stared, wide-eyed at his mugshot on the slightly grimy television set until the news anchor segued to the weather reporter. The mugshot was of him, 23 years old, pupils blown, full head of dark hair, staring past the camera and straight into his own soul. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

After lying under the paperthin covers, staring up into nothing for hours, Trevor started to feel that familiar itch, the one that starts in his arms, and snakes up to just between his eyes. He needed a fix, or at least a drink, and so stood up, steadying himself on the headboard after the effects of sleep-deprivation, drug binges and starving for days on end got the better of him. He slipped on his jeans, damp from the cold of the room, and shrugged on a red flannel shirt that he found crumpled on the armchair next to the bed. It smelt of marijuana, and some cheap cologne he didn’t quite recognise. Gathering the shirt wasn’t quite his, and not caring how it came to be in his room, he ventured into the night, his path illuminated by the green of the motel sign, and the red cherry of the cigarette pressed to his lips.

The 24/7 across the street didn’t have much of a selection when it came to liquor, so Trevor settled with a case of Dusche and a pack of smokes. As he went to the counter to pay, he noticed a pack of ladies’ razors hanging on a cardboard cutout. 

“I’ll take some of those razors there as well.” Trevor said, having to clear some of the coarseness from his throat. 

“Sure thing, pal. Although you don’t seem like the kinda fella that takes much pride in having smooth legs”, the cashier scoffed.

“Did I ask for a commentary on why I fucking want them, or did I just ask for them, pal -” He pulled the cashier closer to his own face, fist grabbing a handful of his shirt - “And while we’re at it, pal, why don’t you keep your fucking tongue to yourself, or I’ll do everyone a decency and pull it right out your fucking jaw”, he spat, every syllable snake-like, venomous, as he watched the colour drain right of the cashier’s face and into the sweat in his brow. 

“I -I didn’t mean anything by it man! He-here take the fuckin’ things!”, he sputtered as he half-threw the razors and cigarettes at Trevor. Trevor half-laughed, clicking his tongue, the venom still sitting in the forefront of his thoughts.

“Thank you, Eric -” he said, looking down at the name badge sitting slightly crooked on his shirt - “and I take it these are a token of apology, eh?”, he said, gesturing the case of beer under his arm and the smokes and razors in his hand.

“Y-yeah sure, pal, just take ‘em. D-do you want a - um - a bag or something?”

That small gesture, an act of defeat, threatened to make the red around Trevor’s peripheral engulf his entire field of vision. He can’t quite remember the order of the events that followed, whether he smashed his skull into the desk first, or whether he shoved the plastic bag so far down his throat he could feel the rhythmic thudding of his heart increase with each failed breath. All he knows, is that he learned his lesson, and it doesn’t matter it’s wasted on a dead man.

Adrenaline filling his veins, he made his way back to his motel room, and threw the beer and smokes onto the bed. He kicked his boots off, wishing he had taken the boots the cashier was wearing, noticing when he was pulling his lifeless corpse into the backroom that they were practically brand-new, unworn tread and unfrayed laces, and his own were falling apart. He padded over the the bathroom, and switched the light on, the yellow glow filling the room and the extractor fan coming to life. He turned the hot water tap on, lukewarm water sputtering out into the sink, and looked at himself in the slightly cracked mirror of the bathroom.

He hadn’t looked at himself, properly looked at himself, for months. He would occasionally catch a glimpse of himself in a reflection of a window, or in the eyes of his next victim, but hadn’t truly comprehended the effects of 20 years of life of the run could do to someone. His hair, now shoulder-length, was barely present on the top of his head, apart from the tuft of wiry hair on his pronounced widow's peak. His caramel eyes, once so vibrant and full of naivety, now looked back at him empty, his right set beneath two parallel scars, separating his eyebrow in two. 

He ripped a razor out of the packet, looking at himself one more time. He thought of all the times Michael had caressed his hair as the sun leaked through the window, all the times Michael had kissed him too roughly, pulling away only to complain about his mustache. He grabbed his knife out of his belt loop, gathered his hair into his fist, and sliced through, shutting his eyes, as his hair fell to the floor at the same sped his tears did.

\-----------------------------------------------

For the next few months, he drifted. Drifted in and out of consciousness, of states, of people. New places, new names, new faces, anything and everything so he could forget.

Trevor found himself losing control very often, perhaps down to the crystal, maybe the cheap liquor, maybe because he didn’t want to control himself anymore. If he was ‘unstable’ before, he couldn’t even comprehend what he was now. A monster, a killer, a thief, a psycho, it didn’t matter to him. Nothing mattered.

“Wherever you’re going, pal. It’s cool with me” he said as he climbed into the back of the red Bodhi that stopped on the side of the highway. 

“Alright man, it’s gon’ be a long drive, so you might wanna make yourself comfortable.”

Before he knew it, his eyes were closing, and he only woke again when the sun started to rise. Sitting up, he realised the truck was parked, and it’s owner presumably inside the small bar just set up on the side of the dirt track adjacent. Stretching, he looked around, his neck stiff from sleeping in the back of the pickup. He craned his neck, rolling his head around, and caught a glimpse of the truck’s owner at the bar, head down next to a half-drunk beer. He saw the glovebox slightly open, noticing a wad of cash, not much, slipped inside, along with the keys to the truck thrown nonchalantly within. Before he knew it, he was behind the wheel, cash firmly in his jacket pocket, and truck roaring down the track and back onto the highway, the owner’s cries falling further and further into the distance.

A few hours of driving, the hot breeze of the summer brushing against his body, and he finally noticed the red blinking light of the gas meter flashing. As he wondered just how long it had been blinking, he pulled into a gas station that just happened to appear along the road like a mirage. 

He filled the truck up, paying in the stolen cash, and settled back into absentmindedly driving. He could of been driving east, maybe north, for all he cared, he could keep driving and driving and never stop. Any wondering of the destination was resolved when he passed a large sign, hardly easy to miss in the stark emptiness of the desert.

‘Welcome to San Andreas.’

\-------------------------------------------------------

After his sixth whiskey, Trevor was in need of something harder, which wouldn’t be hard to find with prostitutes hanging outside the bar, and a group of middle-aged bikers, not much older than Trevor, sitting in the booth at the end of the bar tweaked the fuck out.

He had only been in San Andreas a few weeks, and from what he gathered he was only a few hours outside Los Santos, the city infamous for fakes, freaks and everyone inbetween. Trevor scoffed at the thought of being so close to a city so against his morals, but regardless the small town he was situated in could have been any hick-town in any state, the trash still the same, the drugs still the same, and the opportunities for Trevor to reek havoc still the same.

He stumbled out of the bar, not realising how heavy the whiskey was sitting in his empty stomach. The truck owner’s cash had quickly dwindled into only a few hundred dollar bills, and Trevor was now close to broke, getting angrier every time he thought of his ill-gotten millions sitting in a savings account he would never have access too.

He hadn’t thought of Michael in what seemed like an age, every time the memories threatened to force themselves too close to the forefront of his mind, he would do anything he could to absolve himself of them. But now, with no money, no distractions, he couldn’t help but think of all the times he and Michael would tumble out of a bar just like this one, fall into eachothers arms, and barely be able to wait for the motel room door to close before they fell into each other and talked or fucked or both until the sun came up.

There were only 3 other stores along the lonely promenade where Trevor stood swaying, a Binco clothing store, a 24/7 and a tattoo parlour. Without thinking, he started towards the tattoo parlour, hesitating slightly before pushing the door open to the sound of a bell chiming and an unamused artist sitting behind a desk doodling in a notebook.

“You still open?” Trevor asked, taken aback by how measly his own voice sounded.

“The door’s open, ain’t it? Sure we are, can’t sniff at the opportunity to ink some poor drunk soul’s ass at 3 in the morning.” 

“Ah, yeah, I … I wanna get a tattoo.”

“No shit, sit down on the bed, i’ll get the gun ready, won’t be a sec.”

Trevor sat tentatively on the edge of the bed, the leather cracking and groaning under his weight, before swinging his legs round and closing his eyes, trying - and failing - to stop his thoughts racing through years of memories and emotions. He opened his eyes, hoping the tattoo artist wouldn’t notice how watery they were getting.

After giving a brief description of what he wanted, the artist went to work, the heat of the needle against his bicep bringing him back down to earth.

He must have fallen asleep, the humming of the needle and the weight of the whiskey making his eyelids heavy, and only woke when the artist’s voice broke the silence.

“Hey man, all finished. Wanna take a look?”

Trevor wielded the mirror given to him, and looked down at his arm. The tanned, sinew of his muscle was now covered in black ink, in the shape of a cross, covered with 4 layers of scroll.

‘RIP. Michael. 1965-2004.’

‘Brother.’

He nodded in gratitude at the artist, and pressed the last few hundred dollar bills in his pocket on the desk, leaving a large sum of change for the artist that he vaguely heard some kind of appreciation for.

He walked into the night, his arm slightly irritated by the cuff of his t-shirt, and looked into the sky, pressing his lips together into a straight line, eyes glistening against the moonlight. He stared, breathing in the smell of whiskey on his clothes, the smell of gasoline on his hands, the smell of Michael’s Redwoods, his mother’s perfume, the blood of every one of his victims.

He turned back, and faced the shop again.

“Back for another? You left a pretty healthy tip back there, this one's on the house.” he said with a genuine laugh.

“Where’d you want it bro?”, he asked when saw the expressionless emotion pressed into every inch of Trevor’s body.

“On my neck.” he said gesturing his thumb like the knife he had held against the same spot too many times before, praying for the courage to press down.

“Around my neck.”


End file.
